this day is almost like night
and hurts as much
this cloud is almost like the sun
not a drop of rain
this word is almost like a noise outdoors
A Meeting on a Bus
why do I look
at this funny guy
in a stained coat
why do I examine with affection
his right arm
and a little vein on his temples
why do I listen
when he is silent
to the other woman
not to me
he had your lips
the eyes hurt to look at them
too grand for him
he fears them
don´t be afraid, silly
wipe off them this
underneath they are like you
they are scared
Not to act in this tragedy, but to live
settle down and slice bread every morning,
not about snow flakes to dream
but about porridge -
farina or oatmeal.
Above soothingly bright footlights
to glance at audiences with a frown,
and to rush to help over there,
where the boiling kettle is loud.
To live in this tragedy without raptures
Till one day above a light wash
the soul will rise toward heaven
clean as the scent of a wet dishcloth.
when called by name –
and you, joy –
So you, too, are afraid of words…
Translated by Regina Groll
x x x
How to distribute love justly,
to have it for today, for tomorrow
and for the day before yesterday.
And to still have enough for the birds outside the window.
Should it burn, or smoulder, or belch flames,
or just obediently make tea.
It will never be the way it was at the beginning.
Later different from before.
Although somewhat the same.
Nothing new under the Sun.
Until you smile.